


how it was supposed to be

by nextstopparis



Series: honey, i love you [8]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Fluff, LOL THIS IS PURE FLUFF BTW, M/M, and also the knights, based off tsoa scene, forgot that tag sorry sjshjs, like: gwen and gaius and will, no beta we die like arthur pendragon in camlann, other character are mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28622388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextstopparis/pseuds/nextstopparis
Summary: “But,” Merlin continues anyway, because he truly sucks at being a servant, “anyway. The hunt last week was supposed to get you out of it, except it didn’t work, so. I was wondering if you wanted to just go out for a ride, just us, with nothing important to do?”
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: honey, i love you [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843912
Comments: 18
Kudos: 127





	how it was supposed to be

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a tsoa quote on tumblr and thus began my journey of spiralling. and so now we are here. this was supposed to be like. 1.2k words AT MOST oh my god. anyway. 
> 
> title from "right where you left me" by taylor swift (IT FITS MERTHUR SO WELL STOP)

“Listen, do you wanna go for a ride, or something?” Merlin asks one day, while Arthur's very pointedly looking down at council papers and not at Merlin, so that Merlin _won’t_ say anything to distract him. 

The king - newly crowned, and still learning how to balance the weight of said crown - sighs very loudly and for very long, just to let his manservant know how extremely unamused he is at getting interrupted. If he doesn’t finish reading and going over these papers now, he doesn’t know if he’ll find the energy, later.

“I'm sorry?” Arthur asks in response, because it really was a completely unprompted question. They’d gone hunting with the knights a mere week ago, so Arthur had thought that Merlin would’ve basked in his time back home. Especially considering how much he’d complained for the _entire_ five day escapade. Seriously, Arthur had almost - _almost_ , mind you - started preferring _Gwaine’s_ endless ramblings to Merlin’s complaints. Which was really quite the feat, on his manservant’s part - Arthur would never have thought someone could even come _close_ to rivalling Gwaine’s incessant chatter.

He says all this out loud while looking at Merlin's hunched form, polishing his armor right in front of his desk. It’s almost like they’re having a meeting, like this. The midday sun is spilling bright, white, and warm light into the room from the window behind Arthur's chair. Whisps of it catch in Merlin’s eyes and thread through his mussed hair when he looks up, and Arthur vaguely thinks many stupid things all at once.

Things like:

How the ocean had looked that one summer his father had taken him by the the shore, when he was young and baffled by everything, and the shimmering sunlight looked - though he would’ve never dared to say such things out loud - like the purest form of magic, dancing on the surface of the water. 

And other things, like:

How much the pools of blue in Merlin’s eyes look almost identical, at this moment, with the light that’s trickling into them. 

And also like:

How it’s the exact same feeling, looking into Merlin’s eyes and seeing the vastness of the ocean for the first time. All that blue, all that colour, all that sureness that venturing in would guarantee drowning, and yet wanting to go in anyway - pulled in by the beauty and the curiosity and the _want_ to just understand something bigger than life. As well as the serenity; the all encompassing peace that washes over him, as if he’s already under the lapping blue.

It’s absolutely unjustifiable. Arthur manages to not scowl at himself for the - completely sudden and _definitely_ surprising - intrusive thoughts (regarding his manservant’s eyes, for god’s sake), and tries to pay attention to whatever the hell Merlin is saying. 

Coming back to the present means processing the fact that Merlin is, actually, right in front of him, though, and for a single moment he lets his mind wander again - long enough to ask why him and Merlin insist on sitting so near each other when they take care of their duties, like this, when his chambers are the second largest in the castle. The moment is also long enough to realize that thinking about that question any further would lead to emotions Arthur absolutely does _not_ want to analyze, however, and so he lets the thought go, paying attention again. Surely, he hasn’t missed anything important that Merlin is saying.

Except Merlin has stopped talking, and is looking at him with wide blue eyes again as if expecting an answer and - oh, christ, Arthur is _not_ doing this again.

He clears his throat, and scratches the back of his neck. Great, just what Camelot needs: an awkward king.

“Er - I didn’t - I mean...what?” And really, Merlin’s exasperation is completely invalid (and his rolling eyes just plain _rude_ , honestly) because he does this all the time. 

(And, okay, Arthur also rolls his eyes in exasperation when Merlin does it, but he is the _king_ so he’s entitled. Also, Merlin does it _more_ so, really, it isn’t the same thing at all.)

“I _said_ that you’ve just been looking a bit - think-y, lately. Which is worrying because we all know how incompatible you and thinking are -”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“But,” Merlin continues anyway, because he truly sucks at being a servant, “anyway. The hunt last week was supposed to get you out of it, except it didn’t work, so. I was wondering if you wanted to just go out for a ride, just us, with nothing important to do?” 

He looks nervous, which is the oddest thing in this whole scenario, because Merlin is literally never nervous (which is really annoying and not at all a thing that impresses Arthur), but he also never really asks things like this. Usually, his manservant is all about _talking_ and _sharing feeling_ (which is also extremely annoying - Arthur is most certainly _not_ all about those two things, and Merlin doesn’t seem to care at all) (like, one would think that, as king, Arthur would be able to put a stop to Merlin’s insistence to talk about Arthur’s feelings, but he always comes back and, more times than not, actually does get Arthur to speak) (he shivers just thinking about it).

He demands to go on quests, sometimes (or: every single bloody time) (which really isn’t good for Arthur’s heart, with all the worrying, but he can’t exactly _say_ that), but it’s always Arthur that wants to go on lone rides in the woods. Merlin always accompanies him on those more as a manservant than a companion (not that the bloody idiot _acts_ like it though, always talking and whatnot) (and Arthur is _not at all_ pleased by this). So, yes. Very strange for him to be asking.

And the thing is - Arthur really doesn’t. He has too much work that he’s already going through too slowly, and the entire thing is too off from usual dynamics to be innocent and unworthy of suspicion. Not to mention, it’s midsummer and midday, with the sun hot and blazing, high up in the sky, that will undoubtedly drench them with unrelenting and uncomfortable heat. Unless they find a lake to cool off in, but that would only take care of one problem. 

So, yes. Arthur _does not_ want to go. 

Which is, obviously, why he sighs, putting the paper in his hand down, and runs a hand through his hair before he agrees.

(Well, alright. So maybe he does want to go and the idea isn’t entirely horrible, whatever.)

***

They didn’t make it into a _thing_ , or anything. After Arthur agreed, they'd just both put down what they were doing and headed out the door - Arthur to the stables to get the horses and Merlin to the kitchen, to get some food. When they met again, Merlin had a stupid smirk splitting his face in two (and Arthur did _not_ think about the sun breaking through the clouds, or whatever, because that’s even _more_ horrifying than all the bloody _ocean_ and _blue_ thoughts), that had threatened to infect Arthur. He’d rolled his eyes instead, and muttered about manservants who take too long.

Now they’re riding side by side as they let the trotting of their horses and the usual buzz of the forest fill the silence between them. The air is as hot as he had imagined it would be, but it’s not unbearable at all. it’s sort of nice, actually.

Really, the whole journey has been a lot nicer than he thought it would be.

Merlin and he haven’t been spending much time together, since he’s become king. For one thing, Arthur has much more work than he used to. On top of everything he did while he was prince, he also has to do the work his father did as king - work which is more talking than action, really; the sort that he doesn’t like all that much. It isn’t stressful, exactly, because he knows he’s good at it, but it is tiring. All of his time is spent on his duties - from waking up to going to sleep - and so the things he used to do in his spare time as prince have more or less been cut from his life.

Merlin, too, doesn’t seem to be as free as he once was. Although - outside of his increasingly suspicious lonesome trips to the tavern (which Arthur has been suspecting aren't _really_ to the tavern - though he has no idea where else Merlin can possibly be going) - his new schedule cloggers seem to be a lot more fun. For instance, every Friday, Merlin goes to the tavern with the knights. (Sometimes, Arthur even joins.)

And every Wednesday, Merlin goes to the tavern with Gwaine and Lancelot. Which is fine. It is, really. Completely fine. 

(Okay. So maybe Arthur’s still convincing _himself_ that it’s fine. But that doesn’t change the fact that it _is_ fine. It _is_ , damnit.)

But, anyway. They’re both busier, is the gist of it. So their time together, during both day and night (not like _that_ , obviously) has been cut short. And Arthur - well.

Gods help him, but Arthur has sort of, maybe a little bit (maybe more than a little bit), missed him. And he even thinks (hopes to every god and goddess that might exist, more like) that Merlin has sort of, maybe a little bit ( _hopefully_ maybe more than a little bit) missed him, too. 

(He feels like such a ninny, thinking that, christ.)

About halfway there, some quiet conversation picks up. It’s not really about anything, he thinks, only a little bit awed. It’s sort of refreshing, really. Arthur hasn’t been privileged enough to partake in quiet, mindless chatter for a while now, and as amusing (but if anyone asks, it’s only annoying) as Gwaine’s never-ending comments are, there is something deeply comforting and relaxing about Merlin’s low, velvet smooth voice, laced with laughter even when he talks about nothing at all.

It’s familiar - a known variable in this ever changing life of his. It’s almost (definitely) an anchor, and it causes a warmth to spread through his body that is even more pleasant than the warmth of sunlight on his back. 

Merlin’s still talking in the background, something about leeches and tanks, and Arthur tilts his head towards the sky, and lets himself breathe for a second. Maybe Merlin was right for once: this is exactly what he’s been needing. Fresh air and Merlin and no responsibilities or expectations.

Oddly, his mind goes back to that farm life he once told Guinevere about, when they’d fancied themselves in love and invincible, and suddenly he wants to tell Merlin about it, too.

“Merlin,” he interrupts, not feeling bad about it, because while the talking about unimportant things _is_ nice, cleaning a leech tank is decidedly disgusting (and Arthur really does not want to think why Gaius even _has one_ ) and it’s starting to suspiciously sound like a complaint again, anyway.

“...shut up?” _Don’t you dare_ , he absolutely does not think.

“Just... maybe about the leeches.” Arthur’s nose scrunches in disgust, and Merlin smiles brightly at him, eyes soft and shoulders relaxed. Arthur thinks he might look almost fond, but then thinks he might be overindulging himself with that one.

“Of course, Sire. I wouldn’t want to disturb your delicate stomach,” he replies, cheeky and bloody insolent as ever, and Arthur’s lips _do not twitch_ because he is insulted and _not_ amused.

“Every time you open your mouth, I wonder why you still have this job,” he says instead of smiling (because he doesn't _want_ to smile), and Merlin - the bugger - laughs, throwing his head back. Arthur really hopes Merlin doesn’t look at him, now, because he’s certain he looks like a bloody _fool_ at the sound and sight of Merlin’s laugh, and it will be embarrassing for everyone involved to get caught (there is no way Merlin can know he’s fond of him) (although, admittedly, they’re probably past that, so).

“Would you like me to list all the reasons for you, Sire?”

“Oh, shut up.” 

A beat passes before he remembers that there was an actual reason he interrupted his manservant’s leech rant (besides his disgust, that is), and he looks over again. The hard part is finding a way to word it.

“You never talk about Ealdor,” he settles on. 

“Not much to say,” Merlin replies easily. There's no tension behind the words, so Arthur thinks that he isn’t hiding any lingering angst about the place. Still, he can’t bring himself to fully believe him.

“That can’t be true, it’s where you grew up.”

Merlin shrugs, still unbothered, “the only interesting thing about Ealdor was William,” he says, and his voice goes soft at the mention of a person Arthur hasn’t thought about for a while. 

William the sorcerer, Merlin’s childhood friend who had saved Arthur’s life, despite his rather vocal displeasure about Arthur’s general existence. Despite the laws in Camelot against sorcerers that Arthur has enforced, which he surely had to know about. William the anomaly that Arthur still hasn’t figured out (gave up trying to, long ago).

Arthur remembers the weeks after they had returned from Ealdor; how much grief Merlin had carried around with him. He'd looked like a walking pile of bones, those first two weeks. Dark bags under his eyes, skin pale and doing everything as if being pulled by puppet strings while his mind was a million towns away. 

It hadn’t been an odd reaction, exactly: Arthur did, obviously, know the pain of losing a friend, a loved one - especially in battle. He knew the gaping hole that remained after they were gone, the anger and frustration and helplessness that came with the injustice of it all. 

(There wasn’t a single knight that he had forgotten to not look for in training after they’d passed in battle.)

It was just a little - unknown. That grief that Merlin had dragged behind him.

For Arthur, a soldier’s death in a battle field was only really mourned at his funeral. He always looked for his long dead men a few weeks before finally processing that he would never see them again, of course, but he never actively mourned them after paying his respects at the funeral. Life went on, even if an individual didn’t, and Arthur’s was one of those lives that couldn’t be afforded to be put on hold or temporarily given to someone else: there were always wars to fight in and disputes to settle and men to lead and subjects to take care of. And those were all things that needed his full attention. Being a soldier meant that he couldn’t afford to grieve for every man that died beside him in every fight for a very long time - the whole process for a single man is long enough; for hundreds - all more than friends, all more than brothers - he thinks he’d be grieving forever (but then again, sometimes he feels like he is). 

And he’s known far too well how one can go insane with too much of it.

(His father’s eyes, every time his mother was mentioned, always flash across his vision; his father’s icy voice, whenever he condemned another magic user, always echoes around his brain; the phantom touch of his father’s lax grip, after Morgana’s betrayal, still burns his arm, even in his sleep. He keeps checking for scorch marks that aren't technically there.)

So, while grief wasn’t odd to him then, the sheer amount of Merlin’s was - unknown. Almost unexpected. Obviously he’d known that neither Merlin nor William were soldiers, that this wasn’t something _they_ had to have made themselves get used to, and yet - that knowledge was more a theoretical, abstract one. It was - off-putting, to see it actually applied in real life. 

But even though Arthur couldn’t relate to Merlin in those few weeks, he himself didn’t stop thinking about William for a while, too. Not longer than Merlin, evidently, but - long enough to feel ashamed now, having forgotten his role in Merlin’s life.

William, in short terms, was the first contradiction of everything Arthur had ever been taught that was shoved in his face: a brave and noble sorcerer, who hadn’t - in any capacity - proven himself to be evil. He was grouchy and annoying, sure, but he wasn’t - well. He wasn’t everything Arthur's father had claimed sorcerers to be; everything that had been branded into Arthur’s brain since he was born. William had taken every previous fact Arthur had thought he knew about sorcerers, and he’d shoved it all right back in Arthur’s face. 

A part of Arthur was a little angry at first, not understanding why he would wait until _that_ battle to use his magic (well, he was angry for a lot more than that, obviously - confused and frustrated and feeling more than a little betrayed - but that was the question at the forefront of his mind); why he didn’t use it sooner, before the situation could escalate - before the crowned Prince of _Camelot_ had come, putting him in even more danger. 

Soon after, however, he realized how scared William must’ve been about being caught by the whole village, how it was probably the sheer desperation to save the one place he could call home at that point that overrode his fear. 

Arthur had hoped - naively, perhaps - that his confession in those last few minutes was at least a little cathartic; a final moment of peace, in this life. 

It had also been William's face that popped into his head every time he met another sorcerer, for a while. It was William he had thought of every time a sorcerer proved what his father always shouted about; every time a sorcerer disproved what his father always shouted about; every time a sorcerer knelt on the cold stone floors of the throne room, eyes distant and cold or wet and pleading, always looking Uther dead in the eye - it was Williams resolved nod when he’d said _it was me_ , and, subsequently, Merlin’s warning of _will, don’t_ that played over and over again in his mind. 

Arthur shakes his head - William always brought with him troubling thoughts of morality and magic and loyalty, and Arthur was really rather trying to escape troubling thoughts of any sort, right now.

(Not that he and William were friends for him to think this, but he thinks that the bugger would’ve been happy about that, at least: that he’s making Arthur just a little insecure with a mere thought.)

“So you don’t miss toiling away at the fields, then?” He asks, clearing his head of the past, for now.

Merlin snickers and shakes his head, “not that I did much of that, anyway, but no, Sire. I would much rather clean your dirty laundry.” 

“And muck out the stables,” Arthur adds, because teasing Merlin is easy and comfortable.

“Of course.”

“You wouldn’t want to go back, then? Not to Ealdor - or, well, maybe to Ealdor but just - to a life a little less exciting?” He looks straight ahead, refusing Merlin’s questioning stare, and prays he hasn’t made it too weird, asking such sudden questions.

“Not - I mean. I don't know,” he’s choosing his words carefully, almost like he thinks Arthur expects a specific answer. The truth is that even Arthur doesn’t know what he wants to hear. “I have a life here now, in the castle, with Gaius and Gwen and the knights and -” he takes a steadying breath, though Arthur doesn’t understand why he’d need to “- and you.”

“So, no?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose - I mean. If you’re all there, then - it doesn’t really matter how exciting everything else is or isn’t,” Merlin replies. 

They’ve switched places: it is now Arthur that’s staring at him (he _is not_ blushing), and Merlin that’s looking ahead, as if too embarrassed to meet Arthur’s eyes. A soft smile tugs at Arthur’s lips (damn, as if he hasn’t been doing enough of that, today).

It’s interesting how Arthur never knows what he needs to hear, and yet Merlin always manages to nail it, anyway. 

“I knew you’d come to appreciate the job eventually, Merlin,” he says, instead of something extremely stupid and embarrassing, like _I just need_ you _there_. (Which is entirely untrue, because Arthur’s fully aware he’d miss his knights and Gwen - yes, fine, even bloody Gwaine - like he’d miss a few limbs. He _knows_. But he also isn’t really thinking about anything but living in a cottage with Merlin, waking up together and eating breakfast together and not having to worry about the lives of everyone in a city, together; just crops and chores and lunch and dinner.)

“Yes, my Lord, the _job_ ,” Merlin laughs, and there’s a little hint of self depreciation behind it - a shake of his head after he expels _job_ from his lips, and Arthur wonders what that means. “It's the job I stick around for, obviously.”

They make eye contact, Merlin’s left eyebrow is raised (he is spending _way_ too much time with Gaius) and after a beat, Arthur thinks he understands.

He does _not_ blush, and his stomach _does not_ flip from giddiness but - loathe as he is to admit it - it’s a close thing. 

“Whatever,” he grumbles, completely failing to hide his giddy smile and the reddening of his cheeks, and then adds, “it _is_ an honour to do my laundry, by the way,” because it _is,_ every good servant would swear to it.

(And anyway, he has to have the last word.)

Merlin laughs again, and changes the topic to some stupid gossip newly circling in the castle. Arthur listens with half an ear, humming and shaking his head when he needs to. Otherwise, though, he lets himself loosen a little more around the shoulders, and thinks (Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, best swordsman in the five kingdoms, _does not daydream_ ) of a life away from empty, too big castles and crushing expectations that come painted in gold. 

***

They found this clearing a while ago, but this is the first time that they’ve actually come to take advantage of its privacy and beauty, which is really not very well done of them. He makes sure to tell Merlin this.

“Sorry, Sire, you never said,” he huffs under the weight of the basket (how much food did he pack?).

“It’s your job to anticipate my desires and needs, Merlin,” he says off-handedly, and only realizes how _completely horribly_ it can be taken out of context when Merlin snickers right beside him. Arthur scowls, “oh, shut up. Don’t be a child.”

Merlin flashes him a quick grin, and says, “I didn’t say anything.” 

“If only that were true,” Arthur sighs, doing his very best to sound wistful and longing, “my life would be so much more peaceful.”

Merlin snickers again, and falls down beside him on the green grass. Being the clumsy oaf he is, though, he misses his mark, and their shoulders and legs collide. Arthur winces at the force of the impact, and brings his hands up to clutch Merlin’s forearms in order to steady him and move him away.

Not that he goes very far, though. Once he’s settled, his arm - bracing the rest of his body - is under Arthur’s behind them. Like a loose knot, almost. 

(Arthur sees a butterfly in the distance and does _not_ think about relating it to his heart _or_ stomach. He _doesn’t_.)

“How are you, then?” Merlin murmurs after a few minutes of silence, looking at him. The sun’s gotten lower, since they set out. They’re facing it, and Arthur lets his eyes trail the golden hue that’s highlighted the side of Merlin’s face. 

(Damn, maybe that butterfly comparison isn’t that far off, though.)

He shrugs, belatedly realizing that questions usually require answers (especially if they come from Merlin, who won’t stop pestering someone until he _gets_ those bloody answers) (and this isn’t the thought that should make Arthur admit to himself that he’s a little bit in love, but - well).

“Better by the day,” he says, and is happy to recognize the truth behind the words. 

Merlin smiles at him and nods his head, as if saying _good_. 

Arthur never wants this to end.

“Everyone’s still celebrating, you know, to have you as king,” his gaze is fond, his eyes soft but steady, and Arthur wants to believe him almost as much as he can’t bring himself to. 

So he snorts, looking away. Except Merlin - wasting no time to let him simmer in his insecurity, apparently - grabs his face and forces their eyes to meet again. His brows are furrowed in concern, now, and Arthur is torn between smoothing the wrinkle out with his thumb, being offended to be manhandled so casually, or biting his lip to quell the sudden giddiness at such a natural act of intimacy. He’s never been touched like this before.

“I’m serious, Arthur, they all love you - have for a while now, I think.” 

Arthur clenches his jaw so that he doesn’t say something stupid, like _what about you_ , and shrugs helplessly.

“It just feels - wrong,” he finally confesses, after a moment’s silence. At Merlin’s confused gaze, he continues: “my father, Merlin. He - he wasn’t the most compassionate, perhaps,” he very graciously ignores Merlin’s snort, “but - he rebuilt this kingdom from the ruins of war to what it is now. And he was my father. And he liked being -” he sighs, not knowing how to continue, “it just feels wrong, to derive any joy from something that was ripped out of his hands.”

Arthur doesn’t know if it will ever not feel wrong.

The road to any kingship is one made purely of bones: either bones of relatives or foes (maybe both at once; Morgana’s face flashes across his vision) depending on the state of the kingdom. He’d always thought the latter was more merciful; the fact that his father’s bones have now joined the lot makes him sick enough to want to retch everything that he hasn’t eaten up. Arthur takes a shaky breath.

“He once told me that a kingdom can’t survive on niceties alone,” he thinks his voice sounds too far away, “that we need to show strength, too, and that good kings didn’t often make good people. Or happy ones.” 

He remembers the day of that particular lecture, actually. It was after he’d yelled himself hoarse, trying to beg, plead, demand his father to spare the innocents that had gotten in the middle of a war they had no part in. There were two children, three women, and four men. They were from a small village in Bayard's kingdom. 

His father had claimed it a necessity; a grim necessity that he didn’t want to enforce, but had no other choice but to. Arthur had cried himself to sleep that night.

“Arthur,” Merlin whispers, and it sounds like an epiphany. 

“But often doesn’t mean all the time,” he says, when Merlin doesn’t continue, because he has been thinking of this since the day he’d been forced to accept _often_. He’d thought about it every time he killed a magic user, or helped one escape injustice. He’d thought about it the day him and Gwen had gone on their picnic, and the day they’d agreed that they were better suited as friends. He’d even thought of it last night - when Merlin was warm and bathed in orange candlelight; then when Merlin had snuffed it out and left, letting dark, cold blue wash over the room instead. 

(Being happy has always been as elusive as being loved.)

He knows that there are better men - ones without his past and his sins and his enemies. He knows that he has a long way to go, yet. Much to repent and atone for. But he also knows that he’s willing to do anything to make sure he _does_ , and that has got to be a start. He even thinks that, one day, having Merlin by his side as only a manservant (advisor, friend - though Merlin himself doesn’t need to know that last bit) will be enough. That he will learn to make it enough.

“And I'm going to prove it,” then, after a beat: “right?”

Merlin looks startled at being asked; confused, even, at being asked - perhaps wondering why Arthur would ask for his reassurance in a matter he’s so set on, anyway.

 _Because you’re the thing it all depends on,_ he doesn’t think, and therefore does not say out loud. 

(He hopes he doesn’t regret that later.)

Still though, Merlin holds his gaze, looking as golden as before, and lays the hand that had gripped his face over Arthur’s on the grass between their bodies.

“Right.”

It’s a little (really very) embarrassing how much of a reassurance it is, coming from Merlin. He lets out a breath he didn’t even feel occupying his chest, and chuckles at how light he suddenly feels.

Merlin grins at him and, before he can grin - or, really, do anything - back, leans in and kisses his cheek. 

(Ah, yes, the butterfly was definitely an apt comparison. He should’ve taken the chance when he had it.)

It takes a moment for either of them to actually move. Merlin’s cheek is resting against his, his breath a warm and light tickle in his ear, and Arthur, more than anything, is just a little too scared that moving will mean jostling out of this one moment that he feels like he's been waiting for since the dawn of time. He’s not sure he’s ready to let go of it yet.

But then Merlin takes a deep, albeit shaky, breath, and rests their foreheads together.

**Author's Note:**

> pls everything got so out of hand with this fsijfsoeifjs.... 
> 
> anyway, thanks for reading!! I hope you liked it:)


End file.
